(Double) Weekly Roundup: No Time For Very Smart Boys Edition

So why is it I'm so distraught That what I'm selling is getting bought? At some point you just can't control What people use your fake name for -- Father John Misty, "Leaving L.A."

Turns out "Mr. LeMans" was right all along. During the 2009 Detroit Auto Show, Audi rented a downtown theater and put on an exclusive advance showing of their fine film, "Truth In 24". A few of the drivers were there as well. I found myself chatting with Tom Kristensen, who answered two of my questions in very thoughtful fashion. As I was winding up to ask him a third one, something that, you know, wouldn't just be a regular question but would also make it plain to Tom how he and I were linked forever in the, ahem, brotherhood of speed, Tom happened to see someone he knew across the aisle of the theater. At that point he simply turned away from me as I was asking the question then walked away. No excuses, no warning. I never spoke to him again. I do have a nice photo of the two of us, however.

At the time I was a bit put off, but after thirteen years dealing with "car guys" I've come to completely understand, and sympathize with, what he did.

The problem with minor or inconsequential fame is that you are truly no different from your fans. This goes double when you are a relatively unsuccessful person such as myself who has a lot of highly accomplished readers. A significant percentage of the commenters at Riverside Green earn more money and have done more with their lives than I have. In many cases what you have to say to me is more interesting and worthwhile than the reverse. For that reason, I try to engage whole-heartedly with every single one of my readers, Instagram followers, or RG commenters who wants my attention.

Nineteen out of twenty times this goes very well and I learn something from the interaction. But that twentieth time is a real bitch. More often that not it takes the form of what author Vox Day calls a Very Smart Boy.

The Very Smart Boy can appear with any number of conversational gambits -- "Were you aware that..." or "I'm pretty sure you don't know this, but..." or even just "You're wrong about this because..." but this universe of possibilities quickly and inevitably narrows to his true purpose, which is to let you know Just How Smart He Is. Given the slightest provocation, the VSB will erupt with a wall of word-salad text designed to browbeat you into compliance. Alternately, he might be deliberately obscure and secretive, attempting to convince you that he has superior knowledge of a subject but is not quite ready to share it with you.

There are really only two ways for an educated man to argue his case: either starting with a specific proposition and expanding it to general application, or the reverse. The VSB has mastered neither, therefore his "arguments" go nowhere. And that's fine, because he doesn't really have an argument. He just wants your attention. Why?

This is what I have come to believe: Vox Day uses the phrase "Secret King" to describe men who just know in their hearts that they are superior to everyone else out there -- or desperately wish that was the case, anyway -- but who are emotionally unhinged by the fact that the world doesn't seem to recognize that. The Secret King knows that he could do a better job at writing my columns, racing my cars, patiently listening to all the mistresses of my misspent early forties. He knows that he deserves all the things that I have. And yet the world gave all of those things to me and not him! It therefore becomes very important that he set me straight. I must be made to know that he is the Secret King and that he is superior to me.

The more the VSB/Secret King disagrees with me, the more compelled he is to interact with me. This is in stark contrast to how normal people behave. As a counter example of sorts: Jon Krakauer wrote a brilliant book, Into The Wild, with one flaw: at the request of Carine McCandless, he agreed to conceal the fact that Chris McCandless, her brother and the tale's protagonist, was abused as a child. As a consequence, much of Chris's behavior comes off as just being "spoiled" or "bratty". Twenty-five years later, Carine agreed to let Jon discuss the abuse in the Anniversary Edition of the book. The moment I read that, I thought "Holy shit, that explains it all."

I think it was super-uncool of Jon to basically speak ill of the dead by concealing the fact of Chris's abuse for all those years. Much has been said and written about Chris from a position of ignorant malice as a result. Several years ago, I had the chance to discuss it with Krakauer on Instagram. I made my point, he disagreed, and that was it. It's never occurred to me that I should email him further, or that I should contact him again. If I thought there was the slightest chance that he would read this column, I wouldn't mention it here. There's nothing to be gained by beating a dead horse. Into the Wild is still a great book, he's still a great writer. I'm not the mentally healthiest person in America, but I'm sane enough to not make this an endless tilt against an ancient windmill. I don't think I could have written Into The Wild any better than Krakauer did. Scratch that; I couldn't have written it nearly as well.

This is in sharp contrast to, say, the elephantine emails and comments I continue to receive from former TTAC and RG participant David Sanborn, who never tires of sandblasting my inbox with frothing invective regarding the "January 6 coup" or the "Ukraine invasion". His communications are gravid with links to CNN opinion pieces and Rachel Maddow diatribes, as if the whole world isn't being continually suffocated with that stuff. His vigorous and passionate defense of orthodoxy reminds me of nothing so much as Julia shouting "SWINE!" at the telescreen during the Two Minutes Hate. There's nobody out there who is agreeing with the Narrative quite as hard as David. He never musters an argument, never attempts to convince me of his own viewpoint. I'm not sure that he has his own viewpoint. He just needs me to understand that I am wrong.

Then we have this deliberately anonymous person in the screenshot that opens this roundup. I don't know why I accepted this fellow's request on IG; it's possible that he started following me back when I didn't have a restricted account. Three times in the past six months he has felt it necessary to contact me with oracular, superior-sounding criticisms. He doesn't have an alternate point to make; he just wants me to know how smart he is and how stupid I am. Because I'm kind of a pushover at heart, I gave him a few chances to actually engage with me on these topics -- the last one being the moronic Pikes Peak ego-mobile built by Ken Block for no particular purpose. No dice. He just wanted to make sure I understood how Very Smart he was.

Tom Kristensen wouldn't have given him an second or third chance, but at least I had the sense to walk away after three interactions.

After some thought, I've decided to implement a "one and done" rule for interactions with potential VSBs/SKs. If you want to discuss something, on this site or elsewhere, I'm always happy to discuss it. If you want to convince me of something, fire away. If you just want to display how smart you are, start your own blog and do it there.

None of this applies to our resident squabblers, by the way. It doesn't apply to the long-departed DeadWeight, who I think was experiencing some sort of life change. The best example I have right now, outside of Mr. Sanborn, would be one of the three Hagerty commenter accounts who exist solely for the purpose of disagreeing with me on everything, no matter what, like clockwork. Get a life, why don't you?

For the rest of the readers and commenters, here and elsewhere: Thank you. I couldn't have even this minor, inconsequential fame without your help. Feel free to disagree, criticize, whatever you like. All earnest responses accepted, considered, and addressed. Everyone else is gonna get the Tom Kristensen treatment, sooner rather than later.

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For Hagerty, I wrote about a new race car, a pair of imaginary autocrossing brothers, my 100k Honda, and carbon fiber wheels.